Prologue

The Men of Wit do now their Brains fatigue So much with Politicks and State-Intrigue! That there's not one Male-Poet of the Age Will condescend to labour for the Stage. Therefore our Author, tho' no Rules she knows, What Nature prompts, with Artless Hand bestows: You'll see the Subject for the Genius fit, A Busie-Body, drawn by Female Wit, Still on the Hunt to know of others Wooing, Eternally employ'd, and nothing doing! Into dear Secrets anxiously they press, Destroying, even where they wish Success! The scanty Age all better Fare denies, And no new Characters the Town supplies. Some Years ago Wit had a larger Field, And every Room cou'd fresh Stage-Coxcombs yield; But long has been all Humorous Folly crost, All Fool in empty Politician's lost. Scowrers, and Rakes, and Debauchees are o'er, Beaux are extinct, and Bullies are no more. Therefore in Scarcity of home-bred Tools, Your Treat to Night's compos'd of Foreign Fools; And tho' our Mar-plot has been shown before, The Fool may differ, on a different Shore— For once, then, break old Custom; be not o'er-nice, But let the self-same Woman please you Twice.